


Selvage

by Starlinghue



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Boss/Employee Relationship, Clubbing, Complicated Relationships, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Sexual Content, Motorcycles, Power Dynamics, Pre-Blind Betrayal, Present Tense, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hate sex but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24712543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlinghue/pseuds/Starlinghue
Summary: Nacho thought the thrill he'd felt under Lalo's attention had come from the relief of knowing he'd have something to show Fring to prove his worth. But now he's not so sure.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	Selvage

**Author's Note:**

> Some things to keep in mind:  
> 1) This is set somewhere before Lalo gets arrested.  
> 2) Just assume that most of the dialogue between the guys is in Spanish, it felt too clunky to keep reiterating it when it wasn't necessary.  
> 3) There is one use of the F slur, unfortunately, but only because I felt the need to underline how Lalo is kind of the black sheep of the Salamanca family. (aka that gay cousin nobody talks about but hasn't been outright disowned by their homophobic relatives because they're all pretending not to see it)

_Selvage (noun) ;_

_An edge produced on woven fabric during manufacture that keeps it from unravelling._

\---

"They told me you were smart."

Nacho watches as Lalo circles around the room, a spring in his step, jovial and imposing. He's made himself right at home, singing pleasantly over the relentless heat and of the grill. When he offers Nacho a plate, there's a grin on his face that's friendly enough, but everything else about him is screaming _threat, threat, threat_ in bold, capital letters.

So, Nacho rejects the food, and keeps his eyes on Lalo's back as he wanders out of the kitchen, weaving effortlessly through the restaurant like he owns the place. He pulls out a seat next to Domingo— he wants to be upfront and personal with the dealers, not just skulking in the background like his uncle cousins. Nacho watches him move. It's kind of impossible not to.

"It's gonna be like I'm not even here." Lalo calls back, his tone deceptively innocent. Nacho knows what he's really saying is _I'm in charge now_.

Another Salamanca giving him orders. Another knife in his gut for Fring to twist.

\---

Lalo is nothing like the other men he's worked for, and Nacho hates him for it. 

As awful as Hector was, his cruelty ran in patterns. All he cared about was his empire, his money, and his pride. His behaviour was disgusting, but predictable, which was what had made him so easy to betray. Tuco had been erratic, especially when he was using coke or glass, but he was simple enough to control if you could talk him down from one of fits of anger, drug induced or otherwise. And the twins might as well have been hunting dogs, for there was little else they did besides stand around looking menacing before they started pulling triggers. These were all horrible, violent men, and though Nacho had feared them at times, he had never once respected them. They weren't the kind of men that were smart enough for him to respect, not the way Fring is. Though in truth, Nacho knows he can't ever really respect a man who poses a threat his father. 

Unfortunately for Fring, Lalo appears to have a brain behind his cold, black eyes, and it's a brain that Nacho can't seem to get a handle on.

_He smiles too much_ , Nacho thinks, and the realization washes over him like a bucket of freezing cold water. Lalo wants to look trustworthy, with his poker nights, his cooking, and his constant, cheerful chatter. He wants to look _human_. 

No other Salamanca had bothered. Those silver-spoon fed assholes had never once made an attempt to stoop down to the level of their men. Princes and kings don't mingle with peasants, after all. Tuco may have called him a friend, but Nacho knew that he meant it in the same way that a boy can make friends with a stray dog. Nacho was, and always will be, beneath him. His family has no foothold in the cartel. To them, he wasn't even born on the right side of the border.

Lalo is, by all equivalents, nothing but a rich kid going slumming. There's no need for him to be in Albuquerque, down in the dirt, when his birthright has already guaranteed him more money and power than he could ever use. The only reason Lalo is here, stirring the pot with Fring and waiting for bloodshed, is because he must enjoy it. Like a cat playing with its food.

_You've picked one hell of a rat to make a meal out of,_ Nacho wants to tell him, but for obvious reasons he doesn't. In this game of cat and mouse, he's nothing but an insect beneath both their feet. A helpless little ant, trying desperately not to get squished.

\---

His stunt with the coke proves to be fruitful enough to get Lalo to trust him, though the opportunity itself had more or less fallen into his lap. It's actually a little frustrating to see that all he needed to do was put on a bit of a show to get Lalo's attention. Ride or die loyalty is easy enough for Nacho to fake, especially since he's been doing it for years already with Tuco.

And it figures that Lalo's the type to be easily dazzled by feats of stealth and athleticism. In hindsight, it seems completely obvious to Nacho that the only way he was ever going to impress a flashy guy like him was through action, not words. He blames Fring and all his headgames for making him overthink his approach.

There's an instant gratification in winning Lalo's trust that doesn't just come from knowing that Fring will ease up on him, too. Nacho feels, for the first time in over a year, a sense of heady, electrifying victory. The same satisfying, breathless delight he'd felt when Hector had collapsed from his stroke. In that moment, he'd understood why it was called a power _trip_. The rush in his veins was better than any drug he'd ever taken. Knowing that he was responsible for something, knowing that everything was going according to his plans for just one moment in the chaotic, ever changing flow of the universe— there was nothing quite like it. He's certain that he's never felt any greater joy.

Which is probably more than a little fucked up, given the circumstances, but that's hardly news to him at this point.

In the days following his little rescue mission, Lalo insists everybody goes out for drinks to celebrate their good business. Keeping morale high even with Domingo behind bars.

"Have another round, Ignacio, it's on me." Lalo says, clasping a hand around the back of Nacho's neck, like he's proudly showing him off to the others. Nacho watches their eyes flicker nervously between the two of them. Experience has taught them all that even the friendliest of touches, especially from a Salamanca, is to be taken as a veiled threat.

Heat prickles in Nacho's stomach as he feels Lalo's fingernails grazing the edge of his shoulder. Wordlessly, he accepts the fresh bottle of beer that Lalo presses into his hands. The drops of condensation on the glass are a welcome relief against his skin. Hurriedly, he takes a drink, hoping that the coolness will spread 

"You gonna be okay to drive?" Lalo asks in Spanish, his voice alarmingly close to Nacho's ear. He can smell his breath, sticky and sweet from those ridiculous fruity cocktails that he's been drinking.

"Are you?" Nacho replies, deadpan. He feels Lalo's eyes on him like he's being raked over flaming hot coals, but he refuses to take the bait and meet his gaze.

Lalo laughs, and it's a low and dangerous sound. "If I'm totalling my car, I'm doing it sober. There's no point in making mistakes if you don't make them on purpose."

Nacho can't think of a way to respond to that, so he takes a long sip of his drink so that he doesn't have to. By the time he's finished swallowing, Lalo has already moved across the room, springing an unsuspecting conversation onto somebody else.

\---

"You've been in a good mood lately," Jo remarks one evening, lying naked and upside down across his bed. "It's nice."

"She's right," Amber agrees, also naked, and using Jo's thighs as a pillow. "It's like you're more present, you know?"

Nacho, halfway into a clean pair of jeans, has to bite back a remark on just how far from _present_ Amber becomes whenever she's using, which is basically every waking hour. But he doesn't want to spoil the afterglow, and he doesn't care enough to try and hurt either of their feelings, so he keeps quiet.

"What time will you be back?" Jo asks, leaning back into the tangled sheets. "Should we save you some take-out?"

Nacho shakes his head before throwing on a shirt. "Don't try and wait up for me again. You girls should get some sleep."

"Sure thing, baby." Jo yawns, and Amber gives him a thumbs up, eyes already closed.

Nacho looks at them for a minute, marvelling at the sight. If he could have told himself at age sixteen that these were the kind of girls he'd be living and sleeping with, he probably would've sworn that he would never want for anything else in his life. That his heart and libido would be satisfied and forever full.

_Stupid kid_ , Nacho thinks to himself as he walks out of the ridiculously expensive house that he'd paid for upfront and in cash. The big, new house that his father had looked disappointed in. _You don't know jack shit_.

He spends a few hours driving around town checking in on heavy traffic areas in Salamanca territory, because that's what he's been doing at least three nights a week since he started working for them as a teenager. This is the part of the job that Nacho minds the least— he likes driving at night, likes the way the city looks when it's dark, the streaky, neon lights illuminating Albuquerque's not-so glamorous nightlife. Interacting with the dealers is a considerably less tense affair when it isn't collection time, and Nacho appreciates the ease of their nightly exchanges; a simple nod or a wave to let him know things are running smoothly, and then he can drive off knowing everything's fine.

The real reason he likes this part of the job is because he does it alone. Between pit stops, he can almost pretend he's just going out on a drive around town just _because_. No dealers, no oversight. He's just out here because he wants to be. The best thing is he doesn't need to check in with the boss unless there's a problem, and there's hardly ever problems.

Still, when Lalo showed up, Nacho made an effort to keep him in the loop. He knew he was coming across as too eager to please, a major kiss-ass, but it was better to be treated dismissively for his perceived loyalty rather than scrutinized for even the slightest show of incompetence. He debates calling Lalo again when he's done driving around for the night, since he's been doing that consistently so far. Or at least, he had been before he'd saved that batch of product. Before, Lalo seemed to be only tolerating the updates. Still, he hasn't outright told Nacho to stop, and the paranoia of being found out for his torn alliance eats away at him.

In the end, Nacho makes the call. Lalo picks up after two rings. "Ignacio! _Qué pasa?_ "

The friendliness in his voice makes Nacho feel ill. "Sorry to bother you, just wanted to let you know it's all quiet out here. Product's still going at a good rate, and cops haven't caught onto any other of our dealers since Mouse and Arlo moved shop."

"Good, good, glad to hear it. It's nice to know you're staying vigilant." Lalo prattles on in Spanish, and then he laughs. "Hey, you got anything else going on tonight? I have something here that I think you're gonna like."

"A job?" Nacho asks, heart rate spiking. The more he has to tell Fring, the better. Anything to keep that bastard away from his father.

"Nah, nothing like that. This is just for fun."

_Fun_. Something about that word unsettles Nacho. In the past, Tuco's idea of fun was getting crossfaded and going to strip clubs or lowrider drag races. Those nights usually ended with something terribly violent happening, leaving another mess for Nacho to clean up or to run away from, depending on how bad it was.

"So? You coming?" Lalo's impatient voice is suddenly much clearer in Nacho's ear, drawing him back to the present.

"Sure," Nacho says, and he instantly regrets it.

\---

He's not sure what he's expecting when he pulls up to the warehouse that Lalo's been using as another temporary base of operations, but it definitely isn't Lalo standing in the open doorway with a motorbike. It shouldn't be all that surprising to see that this is his idea of a good time, given that he'd been doing donuts out on the racetrack for nearly an hour yesterday. Even so, Nacho nervously eyes the machine as he steps out of his car. If Lalo notices his hesitation, he isn't deterred.

"This here's a Seventy-Two chopper, Harley Davidson of course." Lalo grins, slapping the handlebars with evident pride. "Engine was busted and I fixed it myself. _Es muy buena_ , no? Can't believe someone would leave a gem like this lying around in a dump. Brought a tear to my eye, man."

"You picked this thing up at a dump?" Nacho asks, incredulous. He knows nothing about bikes, not really, but this one looks shiny and new. Fresh out of the dealership.

"Think I'm lying?" Lalo's eyes glint dangerously under the warehouse's cheap LED lights. His easy smile looks downright sinister.

Nacho doesn't answer. He crouches down to get a better look at the painted pattern on the bike, trying to discern if it's a fresh coat. Without thinking, he even circles around to the other side of the bike to get a look at the upholstery, hands tracing the seams in the leather. It's not a custom job— this was done to industry standards, and doesn't have the same imperfections of a personal, human touch. But there's a faint wear to the fabric that indicates someone has ridden the bike at least a few times.

Lalo definitely didn't find this thing at a junkyard. It's more likely that he'd stolen it off some rich chump in the street. Nacho doesn't say anything, but something in his expression must give away his suspicion, because Lalo's grin grows twofold.

"Wanna take her out for a spin?"

Seeing as he's already come this far, Nacho can't exactly refuse. The warehouse is sitting on the edge of a span of desert flatland, the perfect place to roll around like an idiot doing car tricks.

"I've never driven one of these before," Nacho admits, because as much as it pains him to look inexperienced or uncool, he'd rather not die trying to impress a man like Lalo. "Only dirtbikes."

"Ah," Lalo clicks his tongue, unbothered. "Well, they aren't that different. Only this thing has a lot more horsepower than some _juguete para niños_."

Nacho tries not to let that last comment annoy him. It's not as if Lalo's wrong— he was only a kid the last time he rode a bike, motorized or otherwise. Still, spite boils in his veins, and he throws his leg over the side of the vehicle and takes a seat, studying the handlebars and the gears.

"This right here is the gas, there's the break." Lalo instructs him in Spanish, looking mildly amused at the sudden display of confidence. "I wouldn't go too fast at first, otherwise you'll lose balance. If that happens, it's better to fall with the bike instead of fighting against it. Might save you a broken bone or two."

"Thanks," Nacho replies dryly in English. He starts the engine and feels the bike roar to life beneath him, the heavy vibration of the machine taking him by surprise.

"Wow, listen to her purr," Lalo laughs, clapping Nacho a little too familiarly on the back. "Okay, Ignacio— _andale!_ "

Gritting his teeth, Nacho kicks off the ground and presses down on the gas. The bike jumps forward with a start that makes his stomach drop, but he doesn't panic. As the machine propels forward, he leans into it, easing his grip on the accelerator. It isn't long before he's gliding forward at a comfortable pace, quickly reaching the edge of the concrete lot surrounding the warehouse and skirting off into the sand. The natural ground is less even, and the sudden bumping under his seat isn't exactly relaxing. Still, Nacho drives forward, faster and faster, with only the light of the stars and the bike's single headlight guiding his path.

The wind on his face feels intoxicating. A small voice in the back of his head tells him to keep driving and never look back. It's not like it's possible, but the idea is thrilling nonetheless. Nacho whirls the bike around, praying he doesn't lose balance in the turn, and heads back to the warehouse. He'd barely even gotten half a mile away.

"Hah! You're a natural!" Lalo greets him cheerily when he pulls back up, parking a good distance away from him just in case. "Still, you're moving like a _tortuga_. Don't be afraid to kick up speed."

Nacho kills the engine. He opens his mouth to form some kind of reply, but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat as Lalo approaches the bike. He stops just short of Nacho's knee, smirking down at him in an expectant sort of way. Wordlessly, Nacho moves to get off, but he's surprised when Lalo's hand falls on his shoulder, holding him in place.

"Scoot over," he grins, just as sharp as a razor's edge. "I'll show you how fast this thing can go."

And as he's doing as he's told, Nacho realizes this must have been the real reason he was invited out here in the first place. Lalo takes a seat in front of him, his shoulders squaring right in his line of vision. Glancing down, Nacho can see the outline of a gun under his shirt, tucked into the back of his pants, the same way Nacho carries his own when he has to, the same way everyone in their line of work does. Lalo glances back at him with all the playfulness of the devil.

"You better hold onto something," he says, his tone mockingly concerned. "I don't care if it's me or the bike, but you're gonna need to keep your balance."

And just like that, he starts the engine, and they go charging forwards. Nacho very nearly falls backwards, saved solely by the strength of his thighs flexing against the sides of the bike. The machine rattles beneath him, too warm and too uncomfortable. As they pick up speed, he tries to grip the sides of the seat to keep himself steady, but the leather slides too easily under his fingers, giving him nothing to hold. He's suddenly very aware that he's going to fall. Even though it goes against all his better judgement, Nacho reaches forward and grips Lalo's waist. It's humiliating how quickly it makes him feel more secure.

As Lalo laughs, Nacho watches the way the curve of his neck flexes with the sound. The bike goes faster and faster, jolting on the patches of unsteady terrain. There's a clattering sound as little rocks upturned by the wheels go flying against the metal, and Nacho can feel them nicking at his ankles.

It's hard to resist leaning forward and settling against Lalo's back, since he wouldn't have to worry so much about the wind resistance that way. But the small space carved between the two of them is currently the only thing that Nacho has control over, and he'll be damned if he gives it up. Closing his eyes, Nacho loses himself to the feeling of the wind on his skin, and the fantasy of running away. Only it's a fantasy that's a lot harder to get immersed in when the person he'd like to be running from is sitting directly in front of him.

"Hang on, man!" Lalo shouts, pulling Nacho back to reality. "I'm gonna lift a wheel."

"What?" Nacho hisses, but it's too late for him to complain, because suddenly the bike is dipping backwards and he's losing what little balance he has. Desperately, he lurches forward, his hands clawing at Lalo's chest, his head coming down hard between the blades of his shoulders. 

_We're going to crash,_ Nacho thinks, and it's weirdly calming, the thought of dying over something so stupid. He had always suspected that a Salamanca would kill him, and for a striking moment, he's just glad he's not going out with a bullet. But they don't crash. The bike comes back down onto its front wheel with a sickening thud, but it keeps on rolling, carrying them forward at a blissful speed.

Nacho can feel Lalo laughing before he hears it, the roar of the engine and his own heartbeat having drowned out all other sounds. The mad, low cackles slowly chip away at his fear, which quickly morphs into annoyance. Nacho wishes he could scream at him, swear at him, do _something_. But he can't, so he stomachs his anger and moves his hands back down to Lalo's waist, sitting as far from him he can possibly get after clinging to him in his panic.

They keep gliding around for another five or ten minutes— it's hard to tell how much time is passing as Lalo zig-zags all over the field, occasionally laughing and whooping in delight as they pick up random bursts of speed. Finally, he pulls back up to the warehouse, parking by the open garage door and killing the engine with a pleased hum.

"That was fun, ay, Nachito?" Lalo asks in Spanish, looking over his shoulder to meet Nacho's gaze. Like he's challenging him to respond. Something in Nacho's gut curdles at the nickname, especially the fondness with which it had been spoken.

"Nice weather for it," is all Nacho can think to say.

Lalo laughs, and Nacho can't tell if it's forced or if he's actually delighted.

"It might be more fun for you if you could feel the wind running through your hair," Lalo teases him. "But you have none, and regardless, you don't seem to be the type. So tell me, what's a guy like you do to unwind?"

This particular question feels like a trap, and it's one that Nacho isn't very keen on walking into.

"Is that what this was all about?" Nacho asks slowly, and deliberately in English. "Getting me to unwind?"

They are sitting much too close for this. Lalo's pleasant smile fades into a smirk. "You did good with the lawyer, and you're doing good with the business. But you're still so tense! Come on, tell me what you do to lighten up."

Nacho shrugs, and supposes there's no harm in being honest. "I fuck."

Turns out it was worth telling the truth just to see the brief flicker of surprise that crosses Lalo's face. It's not there long, but the sudden slack shock in his expression is so satisfying that it makes this whole night seem worthwhile.

And then Lalo starts laughing, loud and genuine, which sours the victory of the moment. "Hah! Of course, you are a red-blooded man after all. Do not think I didn't notice all the underwear strewn about that fancy house of yours."

Shame washes over Nacho in an instant as he recalls having to hide one of Amber's bras during his father's unexpected visit. He'd thought that he had cleaned the place up well enough for poker night, but evidently he'd missed a couple things.

"Oh, come on, Ignacio, no need to be shy about it." Lalo chuckles, and Nacho hates that he's even paying attention enough to his expression that he can tell he's embarrassed. "So who's the lucky lady?"

Even though it's simply a fact, Nacho knows his next words will come across as a brag. "There's more than one."

Lalo barks out another laugh. "Alright! Hey, good for you, man."

He claps Nacho on the leg before suddenly hopping off the bike, stretching his arms above his head with his back still turned. Nacho watches, listening to the faint crack of his bones as he rolls his shoulders, his own knee feeling as if it's been scorched from the touch.

This is the moment to leave, if he wants. Nacho weighs his options, knowing damn well that he should just get up, walk to his car, and drive away. But curiosity weighs him to the spot, and he finds himself swallowing thickly.

"What about you? Do you have any girls?"

"Hmm?" Lalo turns back to him, brows furrowed. "Back home, you mean?"

Nacho nods, feeling weary. He's treading into dangerous waters and he knows it.

"Nah," Lalo scoffs, waving a hand. "Always too much drama with girls. Honestly, they're a lot more trouble than they're worth. Besides, there are easier ways to get the blood pumping. Like cars— good, reliable machines. Easy to fix. Not at all like women."

Finally getting off the bike, Nacho rolls it back to the garage by it's handlebars, mulling over Lalo's words. He doesn't have time to think up a response before Lalo slinks into the warehouse after him, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his hip against the doorway.

"You know, I forgot to ask if Tuco ever mentioned me. We're not exactly close, but I imagine he must've given you some sort of rundown on the operation."

Nacho considers his next words very carefully. "He never got into the specifics. No offense, but his head wasn't really clear half the time."

"Sounds like Tuco. You're sure he didn't say anything?"

"Well," Nacho says, and instantly regrets it. Lalo is studying him intently, like he's a piece of bacteria under a microscope. "He did say one thing."

Smiling ruefully, Lalo sighs. "I think I can guess."

The words, which have been floating in the back of Nacho' head for the better part of the past few weeks, replay themselves loud and clear in Tuco's drunken voice. _My cousin, Eduardo? That guy's a raging fag. Makes good money, though, so my Tío never calls him out on it. But we all kind of hate him, you know? How could we not._

Things are quiet for a long moment. Before Nacho can stop himself, he blurts, "It doesn't matter."

"No?" Lalo raises an eyebrow.

"I work for your family," Nacho says tersely. "Your business is your business. I don't care either way."

"Wow, so open-minded." Lalo places a hand over his heart, looking sarcastically moved. "How very modern of you."

Irritated, Nacho crosses his own arms and looks away from him. His eyes wander over the tools hanging from the wall. "No one else knows, if that's what you're getting at."

Lalo laughs, completely unbothered. "It wouldn't matter if they did."

Cautiously, Nacho glances back at him. He's still leaning in the doorway, looking unnervingly calm. He's waiting to see if Nacho has anything else to say.

"So you just wanted to know if I knew?" Nacho knows it's a risky question, but he asks anyway. "Why?"

Tilting his head to the side, Lalo finally steps out of the doorway, crossing the room so that he's only a few paces away from where Nacho is standing next to the bike. After another beat, he steps forward again, and Nacho fights his instincts to retreat and stays right where he is. He doesn’t flinch when Lalo reaches out and pats his shoulder, almost as if he’s trying to reassure him.

"We couldn't get along, otherwise." Lalo says simply, his lips curling into something that is not quite a smile. “Better to clear the air now, don’t you think?”

Nacho nods, slowly, carefully. With his free hand, Lalo raises a finger and pokes him square in the chest.

“You do good work, Ignacio. You can relax a little.”

A breath Nacho hadn’t even realized he’d been holding comes falling shaikly from his nostrils as Lalo walks away. He’s only vaguely aware of thsts he's being told to get the lights and close the place up before Lalo disappears out the door, whistling an unfamiliar tune as he goes. For a long moment, Nacho just stands there, not sure what emotion is gnawing its way up his throat. Whatever it is, he decides, feels dangerous.

\---

That night, Nacho has trouble falling asleep. He's sandwiched between Jo and Amber, having gone another two rounds with them as soon as he'd gotten home. They're both out like the dead, but Nacho's mind is restless, buzzing.

He hadn't let himself think when he'd gotten back into bed and let Jo unbutton his shirt. He hadn't let himself think when Amber reached for his belt. His mind had gone blank, only vaguely registering that he was being touched, and that he was touching back. But without the girls to distract him, Nacho found his thoughts lingering back to Lalo.

The way he'd looked at him after he had saved their load of product just a few short days ago was the memory weighing most heavily on his mind. He had been breathless, sweaty, and could feel his pulse pounding brutally against his skull. When he'd held out the coke with shaking hands, Lalo had gazed at him in wonder, his dark eyes twinkling.

_Ignacio Varga, you badass._

Nacho had thought the thrill he'd felt under his attention came from the relief of knowing he'd have something to show Fring to prove his worth. He'd thought the thrill had come from proving to Lalo that he was more than just Tuco's dog. But now he's not so sure. Maybe, he realizes, the rush he'd felt when Lalo had stared at him like that had come from something else.

\---

It feels like a bad decision before he even makes it. They're closing up El Michoacáno for the day after another round of collection, the successful turnover of Fring's dead drops bringing the news that Domingo's coming home. It's good for morale among the dealers— they like Domingo a hell of a lot more than they like Nacho, and Nacho's fine with that. Hell, even he likes Domingo more than he likes himself. He'd never known how to apologize to him after Hector had expected him to punish him for coming up short. But Domingo was good about things like that, and when Nacho had offered him a cigarette as a peace offering a few days later, he'd taken it in stride, just as he had done with the bruises.

Nacho's thinking about how nice it'll be to have him back when Lalo appears at the table, holding a plate of enchiladas in one hand and beer in the other. Hurriedly, Nacho folds and wraps what little money is left into bunches and then tosses it into the bowling bag, accepting the meal with muttered thanks. Lalo sits down right next to him, and their knees bump under the table. They eat together quietly for a few minutes. At least, as quietly as Lalo ever gets with his constant humming.

"What're you getting up to tonight?" Lalo asks him in Spanish around a mouthful of chewed meat.

"No hard plans," Nacho answers honestly, only speaking after he's swallowed his food because he wasn't raised in a barn. "What about you?"

"Ah, you know. A little this, a little that." Lalo says dismissively. "Been casing some of Fring's restaurants. Hate to say it, but I'm really craving that fried chicken again."

Nacho makes a mental note to let one of Fring's men know that later, and it's only then that he notices Lalo is staring at him. Heat floods him all at once, his veins itching with _something_ as he meets his gaze.

"You checked out anything else in the city?" Nacho asks, hit with a sudden idea. It's terrible, and stupid, but he can't seem to stop himself from suggesting it. "There are a few decent clubs downtown."

Lalo's eyebrows go up. "Are there?"

"But I guess you're here for business," Nacho mutters cooly, hoping it isn't obvious that he's backpeddling. "Not pleasure, right?"

"Well, who's to say I can't have both?" Lalo claps Nacho on the back before he hops out of his seat. "Come on— you're driving."

They go, as per Lalo's request, to the club with the cheapest drinks and the biggest dancefloor. It's a messy establishment that's halfway between a classic rock venue and an EDM hotspot; the kind of place where drunk girls wearing glowsticks and punks from the skatepark all lump together in a big, inebriated blur. The dark, poster-coated walls are lined with blue neon lights and tinny speakers.

Coincidentally, this is the club that Nacho met Amber in a few years back. She'd been tripping out of her mind, he'd brought her back to his place to make sure she didn't go home with anyone worse, and she hadn't really left since.

"It's very American," Lalo says, looking at what appears to be half a moshpit unfolding on the dancefloor with avid fascination. The music is some catchy hip-hop shit that Nacho's never heard before, and it seems like a far cry from any of the Latin hits Lalo's always singing under his breath. "Fucking _loco_. Get us some drinks, will you?"

"Where are you going?" Nacho asks as Lalo starts to head towards the crowd.

"Where do you think?" He flashes his teeth as he grins. "I'm going to show these gringos how it's done."

It takes all of Nacho's strength not to feel embarrassed as he watches Lalo step onto the dancefloor, swaying his hips with a practiced ease that looks completely out of place in tune with the heavy, bass fueled beat. After making his way over to the bar, Nacho orders a vodka tonic with lemon and a little umbrella it for Lalo, because _why the fuck not_ , and a shot of whiskey for himself because that's about all he feels up to drinking right now.

As he throws back his drink, he can make out the back of Lalo's head through the crowd, not at all surprised that he's already found some girl to grind with. She's tall, and looks like what would happen if Barbie were to quit all of her various entrepreneurial pursuits and instead decide to start doing ecstasy.

Two songs go by, and then another. Nacho keeps leaning against the bar, spacing out and letting the background noise run over him. He almost doesn't notice when Lalo breaks free from the crowd and works his way across the room to him, still moving to the beat of the music.

"Hola, Nachito," Lalo croons, as he swipes his drink from Nacho's hand. "Earth to Nachito! Anybody home?"

Miffed, Nacho blinks at him.

"Hey, you're the one who brought me here." Lalo pouts, taking a long sip from the cheap plastic cup. "The least you could do is show me a good time."

In spite of himself, Nacho laughs. "What, you want me to dance?"

"Only if you know how." Lalo says, taunting him.

After gracing Lalo with what he hopes is a withering look, Nacho leaves him at the bar and weaves his way through the crowd. Scanning the dancefloor, he finds a few good candidates to try and partner up with, and starts with the woman who's closest to him. She's got long dark hair and a huge tattoo of some kind of flower on her shoulder. Even in heels, she's a good few inches shorter than him, which is ideal. Nacho waits for her to notice his approach, nodding in time with the music and swaying a little as he moves. He can't tell if Lalo's still watching him or if he's lost interest, but that added layer of pressure makes him anxious for this to go well. Eventually, tattoo girl looks his way, and her eyes rake over him appraisingly. She takes half a step towards him, and Nacho closes the gap, his hands sliding over her hips.

It's nice to hold someone new against him, to know it doesn't really mean anything. Nacho can't remember the last time he's danced with a total stranger, and he lets himself relish the feeling of it. No responsibilities, no follow through. Just pointless, reckless physical contact.

Tattoo girl moves on from him when the song changes, but pinches his bicep before she goes, smiling lavishly in a way that tells him he's welcome to come find her later. A girl with dark skin and pretty eyes is looking his way from a few paces over, and Nacho aplroaches her without a second's thought. They spend the next two and a half songs grinding aimlessly together before she sets her sights on a taller guy. Nacho is in the process of turning around to find himself a new girl to dance with when suddenly he feels someone pulling on his waist. The body that Nacho finds himself backing into is undoubtedly masculine, and the hands settling on his hips are square and familiar.

He's not surprised to see Lalo when he glances behind him. He's even less surprised to find that he doesn't mind that it's him. By all means, this should be a worrying turn of events, but instead Nacho finds himself thinking _of course_. As if it were the only possible outcome.

Smirking, Lalo meets his gaze in a wordless challenge. Or maybe he is simply asking a question, giving Nacho an opportunity to bow out.

Nacho does no such thing. He's tired of walking on a knife's edge, tired of playing by Fring's rules and trying desperately to keep up with all of Lalo's schemes. He had never wanted any of this. All he really wants is to just stop fucking thinking about it.

So he doesn't think about a damn thing when he grinds his ass against the front of Lalo's jeans. He doesn't think about it when he grabs Lalo's wrists and moves his hands lower, bringing them closer to his thighs. He especially doesn't think about how anyone could see them right now and start shouting horrifically disgusting shit. He doesn't even think about the sound of his own heart ringing in his ears, off by half a beat to whatever trap music is currently playing. He just moves, thoughtlessly, restlessly, waiting for Lalo to do the same.

And after he laughs, his breath intrusively hot against Nacho's neck and ear, he does. There's a steady, easy rhythm to his grinds that Nacho is incredibly grateful for, since he's not used to being the one with his back turned. Their bodies rock together in a consistent pattern, like a stitch crossing through fabric. Back and forth, and back and forth again.

It's hard to say how long they dance like that— at some point, Nacho stops paying attention to the music. When Lalo's hand snakes its way back to his waist and pulls, Nacho compliently turns around. The reality of the situation is a bit harder to stomach now that he's staring right into Lalo's face, but it's not enough to make him stop. Nacho hooks his fingers in the loops of his jeans, pulling Lalo in closer. As an automatic response, Lalo's arms drape over his shoulders.

This time, when their hips come together, Nacho feels it shoot right through to his dick. _Not ideal_. The thought of getting a hard-on in public like this is sobering enough that it kills the buzz of the next few grinds, but Lalo's moving against him in a way that's downright lethal.

Nacho hates him. He's never wanted to fuck somebody so bad. He's never wanted to _be_ fucked by somebody so bad

Lalo must sense his change in mood, because suddenly he's leaning forward and speaking directly into his ear. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

Nodding, Nacho finds himself winded by the sudden disappointment his body feels when Lalo pulls away from him. Obviously they couldn't walk off the dancefloor joined at the hip, but Nacho's skin his buzzing, itching for contact. They shoulder their way through the crowd, which has nearly doubled in size since they'd arrived, and manage to make it out the front door relatively quickly. When they get to the car, Lalo hesitates, turning back to him.

"Your place?" It's less of a question and more or an order. Nacho doesn't mind.

The drive home is tense, but no different from most drives Nacho's taken with people he intends to sleep with. The only difference is Lalo is bouncing his leg restlessly, humming one of the songs that had been playing while they danced. Nacho keeps his eyes on the road, livid over the fact that Lalo's annoying little mannerisms are only making him more horny.

It's only when Nacho's unlocking his front gate that he remembers the girls. He decides not to say anything about them as they head through the door, hoping that they're off in their guest rooms and not waiting for him in his own bed.

Sure enough, Amber is the only one there, half-asleep on the living room couch and watching TV. She waves blearily at the two of them as they walk by. Nacho looks her right in the eye and jerks his chin to point down the hallway, hoping she'll get the hint and go to her room. Glancing at Lalo, Amber dutifully turns the TV off and walks away.

Lalo watches her go, whistling low and impressed. Nacho's cheeks burn.

"She seems nice," he says pleasantly as soon as they're alone in Nacho's room. He laughs when Nacho locks the door. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind joining us." 

_Shut up_ , Nacho wants to say, but he can't, so instead he lurches forward and bites Lalo's neck. He makes a thrilled noise as Nacho lightly digs his teeth into his skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark if he kept up at it. But Nacho is impatient, so he moves on, biting his way down to Lalo's collarbone, his hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

With a pleased grunt, Lalo pulls at Nacho's t-shirt in turn, tugging it up over his stomach. Nacho steps away from him for only a moment to pull it off the rest of the way, and he doesn't miss it when Lalo's eyes appreciatively take in his chest and arms. It feels disgustingly nice to be appreciated physically. Resuming his task, Nacho manages to finish unbuttoning Lalo's shirt while he picks a good place to leave a hickey.

His body isn't half bad, either. It's not nearly as built as Nacho's own, but his muscles are lean and lithe, almost like a cat's. It's shameful how much Nacho finds him attractive now that he's really looking.

"You know," Lalo murmurs as he reaches for the buckle of Nacho's belt. "I've wanted to do this since you first walked into that kitchen."

The words go right to Nacho's groin. He has to fight back a moan when Lalo dips his hand inside his boxers, grabbing hold of him.

"Didn't know what to think of you at first," Lalo admits, fingers slowly massaging into the sensitive skin. "But I knew you'd be a good fuck."

Nacho meets his gaze then, which is a mistake. Lalo's looking at him like he's something to eat. Desire crawls up Nachos spine and spreads through his nerves, warm and deadly. Without thinking, he leans up and kisses Lalo like he hasn't been avoiding it the entire time. Their teeth click together on accident, and then it's a mess of tongues and hot breath. Lalo's mustache scratches against his upper lip every few seconds, an irritating reminder that makes it impossible for Nacho to forget who he's with.

The kiss itself works as a decent distraction. Lalo pulls his hand away from Nacho's dick and instead settles it on the small of his back, holding him in place. Nacho decides now is as good as time as any to work out the mechanics of this whole thing. "What do you want me to do?"

Lalo shakes his head, pulling back. "Whatever you want, Ignacio. You've earned it."

It's pretty fucked up how much Nacho leans into those words, but he doesn't have time to dwell on that. He's too busy trying to decide if he wants to bend Lalo over backwards or if he's the one who wants to get bent. The second he makes his decision, Nacho kisses him again. Hungrily, possessively. Letting Lalo know what their course of action is so he doesn't have to say it out loud.

"Good," Lalo practically purrs in his ear, running his hands up Nacho's torso and smoothing them over his chest. There's a brief moment where his thumb lingers over the scarred bullet wound in his shoulder. "Now try and relax."

He backs Nacho towards the bed until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, so Nacho takes the hint and sits down. Within seconds, Lalo is on his knees in front of him, pulling his pants down around his ankles. Inhaling sharply, Nacho watches Lalo bite at the inside of his thigh, too close to his tented shorts for comfort. Lalo mouths his way over the bulged fabric before reaching up to pry it off, and the sensation is oddly dizzying.

Now, Nacho's had his fair share of blowjobs before, and they've all varied wildly in quality. Drunk, sober, or otherwise messed up, it's never been something that gets him all that excited, certainly not enough to finish. Past experience has told him it usually makes for some pretty interesting foreplay, and that's about it. 

Unfortunately, he has to revise that way of thinking within the next thirty seconds, because Lalo sucks dick like it's an art form. _What the fuck_. He's unreasonably good at it, and his mouth is warm, wet and salacious. Nacho feels like his soul is getting vacuumed out of his balls.

"Shit—" he splutters, because he can't seem to keep quiet. To make matters worse, he can feel Lalo smiling around his cock. It's horribly unfair.

He's a trembling mess by the time Lalo pulls off of him a minute or two later, and it's honestly a hit to his confidence. There are very few things that Nacho's been able to pride himself over in recent years, and his stamina was one of them. But right now, he's embarrassingly close to coming.

Seeking revenge, he pulls Lalo up by the shoulders, digging his fingernails into his back as they kiss. Once Lalo's settled next to him on the bed, Nacho finally gets his pants off, pulling them down to his knees. Lalo watches him mirthfully, leaning back on his elbows like he's enjoying the show. Nacho kicks his own pants and shorts off from where they're hanging off his ankles, and then he grabs Lalo's dick in his left hand and pulls. With evident pleasure, Lalo throws his head back and sighs.

It's been ages since Nacho's given a guy a handjob— hell, it's been ages since he's even touched himself. After all, what's the point of jerking off when one of the girls would be happy to do it for him? 

Still, Nacho's determined to make himself look good. He watches Lalo like a hawk, gauging his reaction when he pulls or rubs him a certain way, keeping the pace brutally quick. He runs his finger over the head of Lalo's dick without even thinking about it, and is pleased when Lalo's body tenses, his hips bucking up for more. Eventually he leans down and starts nipping at his chest, and then his navel, never lingering too long in one place. Then, Nacho gets the idea to bite down just above the curve of his inner thigh, and he bites _hard_. Lalo yelps, startled out of the bliss of the handjob. It's incredibly satisfying to feel him squirm, and Nacho purposefully stalls his pace on his dick to give this task more focus. He's well practiced at leaving hickeys, and this one takes him practically no time at all. It's even more satisfying to see the red, irritated blotch on Lalo's skin when he finally pulls away. It might even bruise.

Lalo is looking at him like he's some kind of otherworldly marvel to behold, not at all dissimilar to how he had looked at him when he'd saved their product. "You know, I get the sense that you're punishing me."

Nacho says nothing. There's nothing to say.

Laughing, Lalo grabs the back of his neck and guides him up into a kiss. Nacho hadn't noticed before, but Lalo's tongue tastes uncomfortably sweet. Like sour candy, or limes.

"Go ahead, Nachito." Lalo says against his lips. "Do your worst."

Nostrils flaring, Nacho bites at his bottom lip and pulls it between his teeth, practically spitting it free before he retreats. There's lube in the bedside table, and condoms to spare, but after a moment's consideration, Nacho opts out of the latter. Lalo is still grinning when he turns back to him, and he rolls over without hesitating.

Thankfully it's dark in the room apart from the small amount of streetlight that's leaking through the window, so Nacho doesn't really have to take in the details of what he's doing. He covers his fingers generously with lube, and then gracelessly shoves his index where it needs to go. He's stretching the area slowly until Lalo makes an impatient clucking noise. Annoyed, Nacho shoves a second finger in just to shut him up. He's no tighter than any woman he's ever done this with, but it's still a heady feeling. With his free hand, Nacho pinches his own balls to keep himself from zoning out. If he's diving off the deep end, he might as well go in head first.

"I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready." Lalo bitches after a few minutes of writhing under Nacho's touch. "Hurry up, man."

"Quiet," Nacho hisses without thinking, and his heart sinks. But Lalo only whines, giving no indication that he's bothered by the backtalk. Even so, Nacho's heart thunders like he almost stepped on a landmine. Shakily, Nacho applies some more lube on his dick, flinching at the cold. "Get on your knees."

Lalo does so without complaint, arching his back so that it's easier for Nacho to line himself up against him. Carefully, he grabs Lalo's hips and squeezes hard, giving him some warning before he pushes in. As soon as he does, his whole body tenses, unbearably aroused. Lalo hadn't felt that tight around his fingers, but this— this is something else.

It doesn't help that he's moaning like a whore. Of course he's loud in bed, too. Apparently, he never shuts up. Desperate to move, Nacho doesn't wait for Lalo to start making coherent noises before he starts railing into him. When Lalo gasps, clutching at his headboard, Nacho takes it as positive encouragement and picks up the pace. This is the part of sex he's best at, really. Just fucking and fucking into the same spot until the friction drives both parties over the edge. Their skin slaps together in a sweaty, sticky rhythm, but Nacho can hardly hear it over Lalo's theatric groans. Every noise he makes stirs Nacho forward, and he thrusts harder and harder with each passing second. Lalo bucks back against him, just as desperate.

At some point, Nacho reaches up and digs his fingers into Lalo's hair, pulling his head back as he grinds into him, just to see if he'll cry out. Sure enough, he does, and it's downright pornographic. Like most things with Lalo, Nacho can't tell if he's putting on a show or if he's being sincere. He decides it doesn't really matter, and pulls him by the hair again until he's sitting up on his knees, his back flush against Nacho's chest and stomach. As he settles into the new position, Nacho moves his hand down to Lalo's dick and starts pumping.

"Jesus, Ignacio," he practically chokes. "You fuck like a horse!"

It's a stupid thing to say, and an even stupider thing for Nacho to react to. But he does anyway, picking up the pace, grinding into Lalo until he can't keep himself upright anymore, and he topples forwards onto his elbows. He's crying out like a prostitute again, and Nacho can feel himself starting to lose traction. He's close, painfully close, but he'll be damned if he comes first.

A bit desperately, he angles himself higher, until he's practically stacked on top of Lalo. The chain around his neck grazes over the skin of Lalo's back with every other thrust, and Nacho leans down to bite at his shoulder as he moves. He's going to have to slow down eventually. He knows he can't keep this up.

Then, Lalo shouts something, the words too garbled for Nachos to translate. But he's trembling something fierce, so Nacho keeps going, fucking him as hard as he can. Lalo shouts again, and Nacho knows he's coming. As he shakes out his orgasm, the relief of being able to slow down is enough to send Nacho over the edge too, and his vision swims. When he closes his eyes, he sees stars. His dick feels like it's on fire, and then his body goes blissfully, wonderfully numb.

When he comes back to himself, he's a bit embarrassed to find that he's practically drooling on Lalo's shoulder. Cautiously, Nacho pulls out, trying to ignore the mess that spills onto the sheets. Lalo doesn't seem to care at all, flopping down onto his stomach with a low groan. 

"Damn," he mumbles hoarsely, a hint of laughter lurking in the corners of his voice. "You sure know how to please."

Uncertain of how to respond to that, Nacho heads into the bathroom. He's hoping if he moves fast enough, he'll be able to avoid anything remotely close to guilt and dread that will inevitably start slipping in through his subconscious. He wets a washcloth and brings it out for Lalo, wiping the mess off his own dick first. Lalo is starfishing across the mattress when he gets back, and he flails rather dramatically when Nacho throws the wet cloth down onto his stomach.

Grunting, Nacho shoves Lalo aside and lays down on the cleanest parts of the sheets. It's blatant disrespect, but he's too tired to care. Leaning back against the pillows and headboard, Lalo stares down at him with open fascination.

"You have a way with words," he says in English, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

"You expected pillow talk?" Nacho scoffs, and then he frowns when Lalo keeps looking at him expectantly. He's going to have to say _something_ to satiate his ego. "Just so you know, I wanted it, too."

"Hmm?" Lalo tilts his head sideways.

"I've wanted to do this since I saw you in the restaurant," Nacho clarifies, and it's a confession that pains him. He's not just admitting it to Lalo, he's admitting it to himself. "I wanted to fuck you before I even knew who you were."

It would've been so much easier if Lalo hadn't been a Salamanca. If he was just some random member of the cartel that had wandered in on his own accord, free of any ties to the tainted bloodline. Then maybe Nacho wouldn't have to hate him. Then maybe Fring wouldn't want him dead.

"Really?" Lalo's eyes flash, and Nacho knows he's said the right thing. If Lalo didn't like him all that much before, he certainly does now. "Well, it looks like you got lucky."

Nacho laughs. He doesn't mean to.

"What's so funny?" Lalo asks, chuckling a little himself.

"Nothing," Nacho says, and for once, he's being honest. "Nothing at all."


End file.
